


The Hope of Forgiveness

by Moonlit_Streets



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Depression, Emotional Hurt, Forgiveness, Hurt, No Romance, Non-Graphic Violence, Other, References to Depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-27
Updated: 2018-10-27
Packaged: 2019-08-08 08:55:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16426295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moonlit_Streets/pseuds/Moonlit_Streets
Summary: Hanzo Shimada-a bitter, cold man, desperately searching for forgiveness. It comes unexpectedly, as an unusual phone call from an oddity from his past.





	The Hope of Forgiveness

It was the little things keeping Hanzo Shimada alive. And he supposed that was all it took. 

How the early-morning dew spread out, like warm butter on toast, and drizzled on the grass. How the sky self-illuminated every morning and night. The thick smell of a homely tea and how it made him break-out in a smile. 

Nature could cause even someone so stone-face and stoic to burst into a gentle grin, even though it sat as a stranger on his countenance. 

Maybe it was the extra dollop of syrup the barista always knew to put in his near-black coffee (because he secretly adored it sweet) or how the river rippled with life when his dark eyes gazed in with wonder. The way the birds sang in the morning or the way the seasons changed during an interlude. 

Perhaps it was the fact that his brother was still alive. Maybe (just, maybe, the archer reminded himself) the hope of forgiveness and a nostalgia-driven brotherhood was keeping him clinging to life. 

The man was a somewhat-wanted (although in his eyes, unwanted) criminal. He could toss his wrists out to many people now to be buckled and thrown into prison, maybe even questioned, tortured or worse…

Forced back home. Forced back into the ever-loving arms of the Shimada yakuza. Forced into a world of violent crime, murder

The early morning stench of oriental, odd tea leapt through the air of Hanzo’s small rent. The abode was pleasant: nice. Of course, the former scion would accept nothing less. Despite everything he had been through, been kicked to the dirt on many occasions, slept in the most torn-down, disgusting of places, he still had some standards. Only some. 

A pounding head from sake escapades-last night had been fun, trying to forget quite literally everything-could be soothed simply by the delicious green liquid. A technique used too many times, but not too many that it was becoming a bore. 

The cup was bare within a few minutes, leaving light stains of grim green herbal-tea leaves. Little reminders of relief. 

A bright chime of his few models out cellphone stole his attention away, leaving a few suds and bubbles on plates and his mug. An eyebrow raised.

It was his brother. Or at least, whatever remained.

Genji’s previous mannerisms and lifestyle of drink, sex and clubbing had caused their relationship to…collapse dramatically like a house of cards. Life in the yakuza, especially being the oyabun, had more responsibilities than privilege-one of them turned out to be slay your little, baby brother. 

It was outrageous at the time to Hanzo, but the grooming and manipulation and constant humiliation from a whole circle of elders finally led to the ordeal being considered.

In truth, the modern Shimada Hanzo wanted nothing to do with the phone. Eyes were everywhere and a cell only helped to track him. The former-scion didn’t wish for his head to end on some sort of plate or spike…or worse, to be forced home. 

However…he did want something to do with his brother. To an extent.

Ever so slightly sud-filled fingers grasped the phone and pushed the answer button. Shaken: it was pushed to the multi-pierced ear. Silence filled. A quiet pause, perhaps, while machines tried to work the call. 

“Anija…?” Came a quiet, buzz-filled tone. 

So similar and yet so different. Too different for Hanzo’s liking? The revived cyborg and the depressed archer had met before-not on pleasant terms. 

“Genji,” Hanzo barely breathed the words out. 

They felt like a thick and heavy poison on his tongue and collecting in the back of his throat. If he admitted that the android, the robot, the omnic was his…his late brother, what would come from it? Acceptance? An attempt at murder? Surely the somehow-revived spirit would crave revenge after Hanzo’s dispraised, half-hearted fratricide attempt. He could not consummate the deed. He had to leave Genji to perish by himself, to slowly decay. Yet when they met in Hanamura, the cyborg seemed…peaceful? No, he seemed something else. He was- 

“I still have hope for you brother. Please, let us meet and we can talk-“ a robotic wave processed. 

It had a Japanese accent-that was still very clear Hanzo admitted, but the way it had been mangled…was so unlike the former Genji that the archer once knew. It was so wrong. Reflective of the young man’s once energetic tone, yes, but it was now formal and refined almost. 

Hanzo stayed in the comfort of silence. Hope? He was definitely afeared of the machine’s intentions now. 

Naturally, his words wound-up and arranged themselves in a staggered mannerism. 

He was about to agree. About to take the first step to a better life and forgiveness. Then the arrogant self-conscience changed his viewpoint. 

Aggression poisoned Hanzo’s tongue- “I…how do I know this is not a trick? How do I know you will not try and kill me? Hand me into the authorities? Is that your plan, cyborg?” 

The conceited individual’s words came out rushed, hurried, nervous. He wanted to sound self-assured; to trick himself and the other that he was unafraid. His words came out corrupt and aberrant. 

Twisted. Just how he had left Genji-

A deep and heavy sigh came from the phone. “Brother…you have not changed much. This does not surprise me,” a light hearted chuckle came. “But I am not revived to kill you-I am contacting you to make amends. We will meet, and only meet, on your own terms. Until then Anija,”

The call hung up. A soft buzz began to gently hum, like a calling bird crying. The noise haunted the older Shimada as he detached the device from his ear, like scraping of a bandaid. Slowly, painfully. 

The silence of the home was uncomfortable for the Shimada. Hanzo needed something to fill the space-to fill the time-to fill the silence. 

Similar to a badly calculated leap of faith, the cell fell to the floor and shattered, leaving pieces of screen and hardware everywhere. It had dawned on Hanzo like a thick, charged wave hitting the shallow crests of a beach-splashing everywhere and bringing fun. 

He needed his otōto.


End file.
